Eternal Flame
by Pegasus
Summary: Bringing more characters back from the dead. Because I can. I apologise for the sucky formatting, seems to like doing this to me. Bah. Now a staggering TWO chapters long. Will the excitement ever end?
1. Rebirth

_DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story belong to Marvel. No infringement intended, blah,blah,blah. Please, please, please do not reproduce this story in part or in whole anywhere without at least asking me first! Thank you..._

**ONE**

**Rebirth**

_"Oh, Simon…"_

_Barbara felt as though she had waited so long for this one moment of satisfaction. She reached one lace-clad arm up to clasp around the back of his neck, pulling him down to her for a lingering kiss. He resisted at first, but soon yielded to her undoubted charms. He was putty in her hands. He was her toy, her puppet and she savoured it. Her crimson lips parted slightly to show her even, white teeth, and he was hopelessly lost._

_As he finally allowed his base instincts to seize control of him and reached for her, she let out a low moan of pleasure and in a deep, throaty, sensual voice, she said..._

"I SAID GET OUT!"

St. John Allerdyce cringed at the sudden explosion of voices into his peaceful little fantasy world. He'd been typing like a man possessed, desperate to bring _'Bountiful Bodice'_ in line with his publisher's tight schedule and had gleefully lost himself in the slightly sleazy world of beautiful, blonde buxom Barbara Bailey. Now, however, he was jerked uncomfortably back to reality.

"Now, honey, don't over react…I was only out all night…"

"GET OUT! And don't come BACK!"

The wall that divided John's apartment from his neighbours was as thin as tissue paper. For the last six months he'd been forced to endure listening to every cough, every sneeze, every punch, every soft plea for him to stop, and it had done precisely nothing for his already agitated frame of mind.

John was…displaced. There was no other word for the way he felt. He was faintly aware that there was something seriously wrong with the simple fact that he was actually alive at all. Confused, tangled memories left him lying awake at night, sweat pouring from him as he anxiously tried to piece together what had happened.

Some nights he had memories of being ill, terribly, fatally ill. The Legacy Virus. He remembered spending time on Jonathan Chambers' island, the colony for others who, like him, had been dying. He remembered searching for a cure. He remembered Senator Kelly. He remembered the sensation of his whole body being torn apart at a cellular level.

And seconds later, he'd remember living a life of opulence back in Australia. He was a person of importance, a man of means, someone who mattered. But how could that be?

The reality, had he but known it, was simple.

When Wanda Maximoff, in her madness, had altered reality and mutants had ruled the world, her confused thoughts had brought back St. John Allerdyce, back from eternal sleep. He'd been freed from the curse of the Legacy Virus and her altered world had instilled him as one of the rulers of Australia. When everything had returned – with the obvious exception of those mutants whose powers were forever lost - to the way it had been, she'd simply forgotten about him, leaving him back in the tiny apartment he'd always lived in, with a tangled web of memories that he only half comprehended.

Wanda had maybe forgotten about the fact he was dead, or perhaps she had chosen to give him a second chance. She'd remembered him as a young man living in a one-roomed apartment in a New York slum and that was how she left him.

John had always had something of a crush on Wanda and whilst she had never reciprocated, she had certainly developed a certain fondness for the mutant known as Pyro, treating him perhaps more kindly than some others would. She could see beyond the complex layers of madness, could see the shy, socially awkward young man beneath the lunatic. Thus it had been that her mind had remembered him and had resurrected him.

If he had known that his return to life was her legacy, her gift to him, he would have wept. However, he did not know this, merely lay awake at night, his anxiety growing daily as he tried to disentangle one set of memories from the other and tried to work out just what was going on in his life. Truth told, he had actually worked out the truth on more than one occasion but, not understanding it, hadn't accepted it as reality.

He stared at the mostly-completed manuscript laying next to the battered old typewriter. Other writers used computers these days, but John had a sentimental soft spot for the personal touch. Besides, if he set up a computer here, he'd be burgled within the first fifteen minutes of getting it home. He was a good writer, his sleazy romance novels sold well, even if they were denounced by the serious critics as little more than 'bubblegum for the eyes'. Why should he care? He wrote what people wanted to read and it paid the bills. But he knew that there was something more to life than this constant stream of drudgery.

He just didn't know what.

Despite his apparent confusion and some early days of uncertainty, he'd re-connected with his mutant powers fairly swiftly. Some things you knew instinctively and John had known that he had the ability to manipulate flame, which he'd re-discovered purely by chance after setting fire to a pan of oil on the small stove in the boarding house's kitchen. In a panic, he'd wished the flames would die down and sure enough, they'd obliged. That had been the first door to his locked memories opening, allowing a tangled mess of realisations to come tumbling out.

Never mentally stable even at the best of times, John had struggled for several weeks to deal with the onslaught of returning knowledge and awareness, but eventually had managed to shore everything back up behind that mental door. He knew that ultimately he'd have to metaphorically roll up his sleeves, wade in there and deal with what he found, but right now, he was able to keep it at bay.

Except at night, when he lay on the narrow, uncomfortable bed in the dingy, damp room that he called 'home'.

Then the dreams, the nightmares, the memories – then they came. All at once, like a marauding gang of criminals, slamming into his psyche with a vengeance.

Thus it was that not only was he displaced, he was also sleep-deprived, managing at best two hours a night. He'd tried sleeping during the day just to fool the memories, but they were smarter than he gave them credit for.

The argument next door continued and John sighed, pushing the typewriter away from himself and lowering his head onto the table to rest on his arms. The beautiful Barbara wasn't going to get the satisfaction she so desperately craved, not whilst Mr and Mrs McShouty next door were banging on at each other so loudly.

Didn't they care that her sexual appetite went un-sated?

Clearly, judging from the ever-increasing volume of shrieks, they did not.

Barbara and her lace-clad arm drifted out of his imagination and instead, he became aware of an overwhelming, almost gnawing hunger. When had he last eaten? He'd not gone down to the convenience store for several days now that he thought about it. He didn't particularly enjoy going out of this place. 'Mutieville', they called it. A slum. A cesspit of depravity. Mutants mixed with the lowest of the human caste. Muggings, rapes, murders and other crime were at the highest here than in any other part of the city, although arson was surprisingly low. This was partly down to the fact that John had barely left the limited sanctuary that the apartment offered him. Had he gone out more, there was a statistically high chance that arson crime might have exponentially increased.

He padded on bare feet over to the cupboard. There was a loaf of distinctly mouldy bread, but picking through the slices turned up one or two that could just about be salvaged. Divesting them of crust-mould, John dropped them into the toaster and opened the small fridge. A lump of cheese that could break walls, a six-pack of beer that the previous owner had left there and which John still hadn't opened and some sludge in the bottom tray which may once have been lettuce, but was now campaigning for equal rights as a new life form.

He closed the fridge and re-opened it in the insane hope that when he did, it'd be neatly packed with delicious, nutritious food, in the way that Antipodean soap opera fridges always were.

The lettuce-beast remained.

"Bollocks," he said, aloud. "This means….shopping."

Shopping was one of the two things that John hated more than anything else in the entire world. It involved having to leave his apartment, it involved having to talk to people and it involved parting with money, the OTHER thing that he hated more than anything else in the entire world.

It was either that or starve to death.

He was seriously tempted for a few moments, but was jerked out of that reverie when his toast popped. He ate it as it was, not being in possession of anything to spread on it and glanced up at the clock on the wall. He was somewhat startled to discover that it was, in fact, just after nine in the morning. He'd been writing solidly for a good ten hours. Perhaps he should try grabbing an hour's sleep, then he could go to the store.

Fifteen minutes of lying on the uncomfortable bed, both listening to the row next door and battling with a fresh wave of memories left him with the conclusion that the concept of 'sleep' had simply been a bad idea. Instead he grabbed a rather threadbare towel and headed for the communal bathroom. The shower, which could possibly have managed its own stand in Ripley's Believe It Or Not rattled and clattered like it would explode any second, but eventually managed to achieve the grand status of a lukewarm dribble that he could at least get moderately clean under. He got out and towelled himself dry, staring at the man in the cracked mirror, almost without recognition.

He wasn't particularly tall: maybe 5'10", 5'11" at the most. He was slender – no, he was _thin_, partly down to lack of good nourishment, partly down to his own level of nervous energy. His metabolism burned calories faster than he could put them into his mouth.

His skin was pale, the shock of hair a dirty, ash blond – although he'd been toying vaguely with dying it some other colour, just for a change – and his blue eyes were over-large in his face. Several days worth of blond stubble made him look slightly older than his twenty-six years, but he didn't bother shaving. The nights of insomnia had taken their toll on his appearance – he looked tired and even a little haggard.

He pulled on his clothes again and locking his apartment door – not that he had anything worth stealing, but old habits died hard – headed down the stairs towards the street. A young woman was slumped on one of the steps near the ground floor, sitting in a puddle of her own vomit, a heroin needle in her limp hand. Mutant or human? John didn't know, but he felt a momentary sympathy for the girl, who couldn't have been more than eighteen. He'd seen her around before, knew that she had a room on the first floor.

Gently, he shook her and was relieved when she mumbled something back. At least she wasn't dead. He took the needle from her unresisting hand and gingerly helped her up, putting an arm around her and taking her back up the stairs. He (rather shyly) felt in her coat pocket for her room key and opened it, depositing her on the sofa. He put the syringe into the bin and left her there, closing the door behind him and carrying on his way.

If he thought HIS life was hell at times, it only took a moment to put it into perspective. She'd be dead before the month was out, of that he had little doubt. She'd be dead and her room would be taken by another kid who'd no doubt die the same way in as little space of time.

It was such a waste of life.

He knew, deep inside the quagmire of madness and confusion, that at one time he'd not given a second thought to burning a building with people still inside, that he'd taken life in the name of Magneto.

Always in the name of Magneto.

If one memory had remained clear and untouched, it had been the memories of his employer, of the Master of Magnetism, of the man who had given the near-insane pyromaniac the chance to actually be someone rather than just fester on the streets much the way he was doing now.

But Magneto was gone. Long gone. He must be. Otherwise surely he'd have come to find John?

Maybe, the young man considered as he made his way down the litter-lined street, he'd done something wrong, something to make Magneto angry. Maybe this life of purgatory was some sort of punishment for bad behaviour. He had, after all, frequently been reprimanded by the Boss for his somewhat…over zealous approach. He had very clear memories of such reprimands. That word seemed a curiously mild one for the fits of rage that Magneto had displayed when the pyromaniac had taken things one step too far in an almost childish eagerness to please.

Those memories were VERY vivid.

John could picture Magneto's face with ease. Before what he had come to think of as his 'sort of death', he had hero-worshipped the man. Every word was a pronouncement, every thought was a grand idea, every action was to be admired. John had desperately wanted to impress Magneto, a trait he'd carried over from his confused childhood. He'd spent a lot of his formative years trying to please parents, teachers, peers – often with disastrous results, especially when his mutant powers had emerged.

Even now, he realised in increasing gloom, he was trying to please his publisher, trying to please his readership.

Whatever happened to pleasing himself?

His wandering feet had brought him to the store that served the east side of the slums, a small, grimy little shop that stocked basic provisions and one or two luxuries. He picked up a basket that was falling to pieces and mooched around the shelves, his mood blackening by the second. Along with the basics, he treated himself to a bar of chocolate.

As he put the slab into the basket, another memory slammed into him.

_"Don't feed him chocolate, for God's sake – he'll get hyperactive. Are you listening to me, Wanda? A hyperactive pyromaniac is the LAST thing we need in this situation!"_

_"He needs to keep his blood sugar up, Father. He's been working for sixteen hours without a break"_

_"I told him to go rest."_

_"He just wants your approval. Here, John, eat this."_

_"He's an idiot."_

_They squabbled around him as he obediently ate the offered candy bar. Obedient was, after all, what Pyro did best._

It had, as Magneto had correctly surmised, sent him into a state of hyperactivity from which he'd had great difficulty coming down. But it HAD stopped his blood sugar levels from crashing dangerously low, so it all balanced out really.

As he paid for his provisions, he grabbed one of the tabloids from the rack and threw it onto the pile. May as well see what was happening out in the Big Wide World. Even if the Big Wide World didn't seem to be particularly bothered with him any more.

He made his way back to the apartment building more slowly than the speed at which he'd gone to the shop. He really wasn't feeling terribly enthused with his life right now. He needed a purpose, a reason to carry on – because right now, he was painfully and uncomfortably aware that he was lacking direction.

He witnessed a gang beating up a youth and almost idly sent a plume of flame in their direction to break it up. That had been a mistake, because the gang had turned its attentions to him. He'd dropped the bag of shopping and for the briefest of brief moments, had let rip with a series of fireballs that had sent the gang packing and had caused considerable damage to a derelict building on the street corner.

But it had felt good.

John reclaimed his shopping, and carried on home.

When he got there, he checked his mailbox. There were a couple of letters from his publisher, an instalment cheque for the last manuscript he'd submitted – hooray – and one envelope hand-written and addressed to "John Allerdyce". This aroused his suspicions. In all formal correspondence, he used the name "St. John". Much as he hated it, it _was _his given name and had a faint air of the slightly-more-interesting-than-plain-John about it.

He turned the envelope over in his hand, but there was no sender address on it. It felt like it contained something small and hard and he slid it into the top pocket of his ancient, but beloved, denim jacket and made his way up the stairs. As he passed the door of the junkie's room on the first floor, he stopped and knocked.

A few moments later, she opened it and peered out suspiciously. She looked exhausted and confused, but a faint flicker of recognition crossed her face when she saw John standing outside her door.

"Hey," he said, in his broad Australian accent. "Look, I picked something up for you whilst I was out." He offered up a loaf of bread and pack of sliced ham, some fresh tomatoes, some non-sentient, fresh lettuce. "Have a decent breakfast, eh?"

She blinked, hesitated, then opened the door wide enough to take the food from him. Acting on an impulse that surprised him, he gave her the chocolate as well. Her eyes shone with bright tears and she gazed up at the young Australian for a few moments before quietly closing the door.

She didn't say thank you.

It didn't matter.

John sighed and made his way up to his apartment. He noticed, with a sense of bitter irritation, that someone had, indeed, tried forcing the lock whilst he'd been gone, but had clearly been disturbed. He unlocked the door and went into his room, fighting down the sense of irrational loathing he suddenly felt for his life.

This was it, he thought. This was the bottom of the pile for mutants AND humans. When you slid this far, there wasn't anywhere left to go but start the slow climb up – or just die.

Much as he hated his life, much as he was lacking direction, he didn't particularly want to die.

Not again.

He unpacked his shopping, put the kettle on and munched on a stick of celery as he sat down on the end of the bed. He pulled the handwritten envelope out of his pocket and tore it open.

A small key – a safety deposit box key, by the look of it, attached to a small keyring – fell out onto the bed. Puzzled, John took out the note that was inside as well. It was the address of the building in upstate New York where the deposit box could be found, and the handwritten words 'It's time' on it. He turned the page over several times, puzzling as to where it could have come from.

He picked up the key and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. The keyring to which it was attached had a motif on it that had been mostly worn away with age, but which he felt he recognised. He placed it in his palm thoughtfully and stared at it.

"It's time," he murmured. "For what?"

Two days passed.

In that time, the girl from the first floor had been taken away in a body bag, her throat cut. John had been deeply upset when he discovered that nobody – including himself - seemed to even know what the girl's name had been and had shed a few tears for her on the grounds that nobody else would. When the police had half-heartedly gone from door to door to see if anybody knew or cared about what had happened, the young Australian had been anxious and agitated, his face tear streaked and miserable, and they'd penned his name high on the list of suspects.

After they had left, having managed to extract his promise that he was going nowhere, he began shoving what little he owned into a holdall. "It's time," he said to himself, repeating the words over and over like a mantra. "It's time."

He owned depressingly little and there was room at the top of the holdall for his ancient, battered typewriter, which he put in because old habits die hard. As he zipped the holdall closed, his eyes rested on the Zippo lighter on the table.

It would be the easiest thing in the world. If he set it up right, he could make it look like an accident. Nobody investigated such situations in depth here at the bottom of the pit.

He sat down, hard, on the floor and buried his head in his hands. The buzz of insanity, which had always ebbed and flowed with his changing moods had reached a deafening crescendo in the last two days and he felt as though there were some sort of itch he needed to scratch.

He unzipped the bag again and hauled out the typewriter. Putting a sheet of blank paper in, he closed his eyes for a few minutes, then typed.

_Couldn't live with the guilt._

_St. John Allerdyce_

He took the paper out of the typewriter and folded it up. He would drop it through the door of the cop station when he passed it. They'd all be called out to what he was fairly certain would be a spectacular blaze anyway.

He'd died once.

He could do it again.

He stared at the pile of manuscript that was only thirty pages short of being '_Bountiful Bodice_'. He could stop here, now. Finish the novel. Throw away the safety deposit key and never follow this crazy idea through.

Or he could take a chance.

He picked up the holdall, this time without the typewriter, and slung it over his shoulder. He gathered the Zippo up, cradling it almost lovingly. A quick flip opened the flame to him and he looked at it thoughtfully, before snatching it into his fist. He pocketed the Zippo and took a deep breath.

He patted the manuscript almost affectionately, then exited his apartment for the last time.

Heading down the stairs, his fist still clenched, he felt a peculiar sensation. A cross between anticipation and anxiety that set a nest of vipers squirming in his stomach.

"Hey, Allerdyce."

The voice belonged to the landlord, a grotesquely overweight and unpleasant man who John had studiously avoided whenever possible. He paused and turned to look at the man.

"I told the cops that nobody would leave this buildin' and that includes you, Allerdyce. Where d'you think you're going?" The landlord jabbed one pudgy finger into John's chest. The mutant winced slightly.

"I needed some fresh air, Mister Lucas." The windows in his room had never opened. He'd complained once and nothing had happened.

"Why the holdall? You doin' a runner, boy?"

"I'm going to the gym." The speed of the lie startled him.

This elicited snorting laughter from Lucas, which made John's brain start to pulse.

"Sure you are, and I'm the king of bloody Australia. Go on. Get back up to your room, kid. You ain't going nowhere." Lucas fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette and slid it between his blubbery lips. A muscle started twitching underneath John's left eye. "I made the cops a promise and there's a good pile of cash in it for me."

"Smoking's bad for you, Mister Lucas."

"So's killing a kid and trying to do a runner. You know you're their number one suspect, right?"

"It can kill you, you know."

"Ah, shut the hell up." Lucas patted his pockets, clearly searching for his lighter. The tic under John's eye got stronger and he leaned forward, a maniacal grin spreading slowly across his face.

"Need a light?" he said, and uncurled his fist.

It was, as John had predicted, a most spectacular inferno. He'd actually revelled in the sensation of his own fire tickling around his face. Lucas had fled, but most likely hadn't made it out the back door before the ground floor had been buried under the collapse of the poorly built ceilings anyway. It had been the first full release of John's mutant power since his confused return to existence, and he loved every second of it.

Laughing like the lunatic that he was, he had stood there, in the centre of the blaze, flames radiating from him in all directions. He manipulated them into shapes, into animals, into weapons, letting his power free, no longer denying it.

Eventually, the time came for him to extract himself before the whole building collapsed and he retreated to within a short distance of the apartment block, where he could maintain the blaze for several more minutes until he was sure that nothing would be done to save it.

The police station was also, in line with his prediction, empty, and he slid the note under the door. St. John Allerdyce was dead.

Long live Pyro.

Giggling to himself, the mutant swung himself up onto the next bus out of the slums, heading for upstate New York.

He stared out the window of the bus, watching the slums thin out into the highway and settled himself back, closing his eyes and allowing himself the rare luxury of relaxing.

"It's time," he said, softly, his fingers gently caressing the key in his hand. "Hell, yeah."

The journey into New York City took an hour or so and on arrival, Pyro slid easily off the bus. The numbers of people and the bustling crowds alarmed him initially and he slid into a side alley to catch his breath. He'd been secluded out in his own little patch for so long, that being in such a built up, densely populated area was something of a surprise.

His first trip was to an ATM. He'd long ago created a bank account under his _nom de plume_ 'David Allyson' which he used for transferring cash into. He'd left a nominal amount in the 'St. John Allerdyce' account for payment of bills and the like, but not much. A withdrawal wouldn't alert the authorities to his continued existence, so he took out a couple of hundred dollars. With the cash, he did several things.

First of all, he went against his own principles. He took himself into a menswear store and kitted himself out in an all-black ensemble of hard-wearing denim and cotton, finishing the look off with a pair of combat boots that added a couple of inches to his height. Then he went to a fancy, up-market hairdressing salon and had his hair cut and, greatly daring, coloured as well. For a laugh, he had it dyed flame orange, with streaks of red and yellow. The hairdresser, who was a flamboyant sort of chap himself greatly approved of this and threw himself wholeheartedly into the venture. The finished effect was wild and crazy and John loved it. He hopped next door into the barbers and rather nervously submitted himself to a wet shave.

When he emerged a little later, he both looked – and felt – like a new man. Like a phoenix from the ashes, Pyro had been reborn.

Finally, he made his way towards the huge building where row after row after row of safety deposit boxes stood, looming like ranks of metal giants.

He looked at the number imprinted on the key. 4781D. Aisle forty seven, locker 81D. John wandered amongst the boxes, which were fairly large in size. The place was mostly deserted; only a couple of other people were around and they all glanced suspiciously at him as he passed by.

Let them look.

Clutching the key in his hand, John turned down into aisle forty seven, his heart starting to pound with anticipation. Maybe some long-lost relative had left him a fortune. Maybe it was the keys to a fantastic mansion somewhere – perhaps the mansion he vaguely recalled of in his dreams of Australia.

He pulled to a stop outside locker 81D. It was a tall locker; narrow, but probably big enough, John's graphic imagination suggested, to hold a man. His heart thumped a little louder in his chest. Perhaps there was a corpse in there.

He had to sit down on the floor at that point and deal with a mild panic attack that crept up on him and dragged him down into its clutches. He hyperventilated for a few moments until he forced himself back down into calmness again. There wouldn't be a corpse inside the box. There wouldn't be.

"It's time," a voice seemed to whisper inside his head and, unsure if it had been his own inner voice, or someone else present, John rapped at the side of his head with his knuckles a few times as though he could clear his head.

"It's time."

He got slowly to his feet and brought the key to the lock of the box.

It fit perfectly.

Swallowing, John turned the key in the lock and stood back a little, allowing the door of the deposit box to swing slowly outward. He squeezed his eyes shut and then, after a few seconds had passed and no cadaver had fallen forwards onto him, cracked one eye nervously open.

What he saw brought tears to his eyes and he reached out a trembling hand to touch the contents of the box.

A light gust of air lifted his spiked hair out of his face and broke his concentration. He turned around and stared as a figure came into view in the aisle behind him.

John's mouth opened and closed a few times, then he pointed at the safety deposit box.

"You kept it," he said, simply.

"Yes, John. I kept it. And now…" The figure laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "It's time."

"Yes," agreed the young mutant, turning his attention back to the flameproofed uniform and kerosene-based flamethrower in the safety deposit box. "Oh yes. It's time."

* * *

_(c) S Watkins, 2006_


	2. Rewind

_DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story belong to Marvel. No infringement intended, blah,blah,blah. Please, please, please do not reproduce this story in part or in whole anywhere without at least asking me first! Thank you..._

**TWO**

**Rewind**

He had spent a very long time by himself, living alone amongst the scum of the city, so it took a fair amount of bravado and poorly-feigned nonchalance for John Allerdyce to confidently follow his former employer through the streets. The crowds still faintly bothered him, but he was holding onto his anxiety well.

This was in no small part due to the genuine pleasure he had felt at realising that Magneto had, in fact, come for him in the end. He walked a couple of paces behind the other man, out of sheer force of habit.

The kerosene tank and flameproof suit had been left – for now – in the safety deposit box where they'd been stored since his original 'death', much to his disappointment.

"There will be time to play later, John," Erik had said, soothingly. "For now, however, we need to talk. There is much about the world that you need to be made aware of."

_Not to mention that I need to work out why it is that you're even alive._

Erik Lensherr hadn't been present when Pyro, finally consumed by the Legacy Virus, had prevented the assassination of Senator Kelly, but he'd seen it on the evening news. He'd watched the young mutant's final death throes and had known a twinge of regret for the death of one of his own. Apart from reclaiming the young man's uniform and equipment for storage, he'd then proceeded to not give Pyro another thought.

Until six months ago, when he'd read the review in a tabloid. David Allyson, purveyor of trash, gothic, pulp romance had a new book out after a four-year absence - and it had already returned him to his status as cult great.

The review had been less than complimentary – they always had been - but it hadn't stopped thousands of young women snapping up copies. For days afterwards, every time Erik rode the subway, he'd see a dozen or more people avidly reading the work, titled 'The Captivating Courtesan'. The alliteration had been so very…familiar.

At first, Erik had merely smiled in fond recollection. So some kid had found a gap in the market, filled a pseudonym's shoes – and was making money out of it. Good for them.

But a certain amount of curiosity wouldn't be ignored and the man whom the world had once known as Magneto had made a few discreet enquiries into the matter. He'd expected to be directed to a young writer, just out of college, working from the bedroom of their parent's house. He'd not expected to be directed out into the slums of New York, to the dirty streets where St. John Allerdyce had lived in the sleazy little apartment where he'd been when the two had first met so many years ago now.

Erik had been around long enough, and knew enough about the world by now to know that coincidence was merely a word penned by those without the mind broad enough or capable of accepting in Fate.

He'd watched the apartment block for several days before the totally unmistakable figure of St. John Allerdyce had slunk out one afternoon. It had been something of a shock to Erik's system to see a dead man walking and had put a further nail in the coffin of the idea that everything was as it had always been.

He KNEW Pyro had died. He still had the archived news footage from four years previously. If he had lived, he would have been thirty years old this year. The young man that Erik watched was clearly the same age as the Pyro he had seen die on the evening news.

For six months now, Erik had been struggling to come to terms with any number of matters. The highly insane state of his beloved daughter. The devastating changes that had seen so many mutants no longer with powers – his own son amongst them – and, for that matter, the matter he dwelt on the most. The loss of his own abilities.

Not that he was going to tell John about the fact he no longer had mastery over magnetism. He needed to gather as many allies around him as possible – and it certainly seemed, from what he'd observed, that John hadn't lost his fiery touch. The pyromaniac was distanced enough from reality not to question why Erik was no longer wearing the helmet that had always protected him from the infernal Charles Xavier and his probing mind.

"Tell me what you've been doing with yourself, John. It's been quite a while." Erik made gentle conversation in a well-practised attempt to calm the anxious, agitated young man down. The last time Erik had seen him before his death, he'd been covered in lesions and was in constant pain from the Legacy Virus. Being so close to death had strangely brought a level of sanity to him that had rather suited him.

That was gone, now. You had only to look into the young man's troubled green eyes to see that. He was freed from the Legacy Virus, but back in the grip of madness. Erik had never been able to pity him, though. He was happy in his madness – and there were precious few people who were happy with their lot. St. John Allerdyce was a rarity in that respect.

"I've been working, mostly," said John, eagerly. "I got a book out. My publisher was dead surprised at first, said something about me having fallen off the face of the planet four years ago, but it did OK. Paid the rent for a couple of months. I – ah – I was most the way through a second when I got your message. 'It's time', right?"

"Yes, John, that's right. It's time." Yes, it had been time to extract John from what was clearly the wrong environment for him. He may no longer have been the Master of Magnetism, but a little mystery was always a pleasure. It had actually given Erik genuine pleasure to see the thrill of delight on John's face when he'd reached the locker. So many young mutants had passed through Magneto's 'care' over the years, even some who had started out with Xavier. John, though – he'd always been a little like an over-zealous puppy: eager, often annoying and with a worrying tendency to burn things instead of shred them – but at least he was house trained. It had been hard not to actually _like _him, despite his obvious mental state.

And he'd been steadfastly loyal. Erik liked that in his employees.

"Where are we going?"

"I have a place outside of the city. It had been a safe house at one time, but since his powers had so mysteriously ceased, Erik had used it as a base of operations. It was close enough to the city for him to stay close in case other mutants emerged, but far enough out for him to remain innocuous. It was nothing particularly over-the-top in terms of appearance; merely a large country house, about a third the size of Xavier's mansion. And it had been very lonely.

Pietro had stayed for a little while, but as always, it had only been for a _little _while. He had been having difficulty adjusting to living life at a normal pace and Erik had been of little help. He'd drop by every couple of weeks or so. They'd sit opposite one another at the dinner table and say very little, then Pietro would get up, make his excuse and leave to go back to his apartment in the city.

It had become routine.

But now, Erik mused as they walked, routine would be very definitely broken – if John was as erratic as he remembered.

"Tell me what you remember of working with me, John," said Erik as they got into a yellow cab. The driver had the glass screen well and truly shut. This was, after all, New York.

John screwed up his face with the effort of recall. "That's the peculiar thing, Boss," he said, easily slipping back into the use of the word. "My memories have been shot to ribbons over the past few months. I keep thinking of one thing, then another, and I have no idea which memory is the real one, or even if ANY of them are real. D'you know what I mean?"

Oh yes. Erik Lensherr definitely knew what John meant.

"Well, I'm here with you now, John. We can sit and talk things through, maybe help you untangle that…mess inside your head, hmm?"

John, who had been distracted by the passing New York cityscape blinked, then nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I'd like that. Talking to someone, I mean."

Erik got the definite impression that John's sentence was a little ambiguous, that he actually meant the novelty of being able to talk to someone, _anyone _would be a pleasant change. He felt a little guilty for having left the man alone for so long.

"I mean, I'm no Charles Xavier, of course, but any problems that you may have…"

"I have lots of problems."

"I know you do, John, but maybe we can sit and take them one at a time."

Erik could think of a thousand and one things he'd rather be doing than acting as psychiatric nursemaid to one of the most psychologically screwed up men he'd ever known, but he had a niggling suspicion that somewhere in John's mind was the key to everything that had happened, maybe even the key to fixing the problem.

"Will I have a room of my own this time?"

"What do you mean, 'this time'?" John's sudden question caught him unawares and he recalled that at one of their former bases, space had been at a premium, and the Brotherhood had been required to room share.

Nobody had wanted to share with John, something which the Australian had remained happily oblivious to. It pleased Erik that the man remembered that much detail: perhaps uncovering the secrets he held locked up in his head wouldn't be so hard after all.

Erik smiled, a genuine smile. "Yes, John, you can have a room of your own, and you can decorate it however you see fit, how does that sound?"

"Cool." After a few seconds, he added an uncertain, "Thanks."

John returned to staring out of the window. He was still dealing with the conflicting emotions of fear and excitement and his left leg jiggled up and down agitatedly, something which Erik found faintly annoying, but said nothing about. It wouldn't do to lose the boy's trust before he had even started, after all.

"Are we there yet?"

The question reminded Erik sharply of his own son. Pietro, as a youngster, had asked that question all the time. He curled his fingers into fists. He did not have space to deal with the problems with his son right now. He had located a major piece of the jigsaw puzzle that had become his life and there was no time to break off to play with other toys.

"Soon, John. Another few minutes. Why don't you carry on telling me what you've been doing?"

How easy it was to bring out the fatherly, kind old man, how simple to set aside the megalomaniac of the past.

Erik let John continue talking, listening with only half his attention on the Australian; not particularly absorbing anything John had to say, but keeping an ear out for anything slightly unusual.

It came, eventually.

"I dream about dying a lot," John said, which caused Erik to turn his head slightly. "Which is kinda weird, I know."

"Everyone dreams about dying at some point, John, there's nothing unusual in that."

"No, I don't mean that exactly. I dream about my own actual death. Not just a recurring theme, but an actual, identical dream every time. I THINK it's a dream, it can't be real, because I know I died. I was in so much pain." John shivered. "It's more like a memory than a dream, but I can't have died, 'cos I wouldn't be here talking to you. Right?"

"Right, John. You strike me as very much alive."

"Yeah. Alive. So it can't be a memory. S'just a dream. Right?"

"Right." Keep him calm. Gain his trust, make sure he feels safe and comfortable and able to talk. This is a delicate process.

Erik wished, just for a moment, that he had Charles Xavier's way with people.

The taxi slowed to a stop and the glass screen slid back with a loud bang, causing poor John to leap out of his seat. Erik put a cool hand on his arm. "It's OK John, just calm down." Erik paid the cab driver and the two men stepped out of the taxi, which sped away, tyres screeching.

"What do you think, John?" Erik cast a sideways glance at his companion, who was staring up at the large detached building with the open admiration of a child.

"It's bloody posh," was the inelegant final verdict. Erik laughed warmly.

"You think it's posh on the outside? Just you wait until you see the inside."

Rather than give the guided tour straight away and overwhelm the young man, Erik had taken John straight up to the bedroom that would serve as his. It was larger than his apartment and had an en-suite bathroom. Erik gently suggested to John that he might like to rest for a while; after all, he'd had quite a big day. He could see that John was suffering from extreme sleep deprivation – a couple of hours rest wouldn't hurt him and might well make him more amenable to the intense discussions they would have to have later. He'd thought that perhaps John might refuse, might be too wound up to want to rest, but he was surprised when the Australian nodded in agreement, having suddenly realised just how very tired he actually was.

He had tried out the large double bed for size and had fallen asleep in seconds, literally before Erik's eyes, something which had left the old man faintly jealous.

Erik went downstairs whilst John slept, fixing himself something to drink and settling down in the room that served as his study-cum-office. He tried not to dwell on the opulence of the past, of the metal-filled rooms that had been his trademark. Far better he live out his non-mutant days in comfort, he had decided, and so he had bought this place.

There were some things that hadn't changed, though.

The VCR, the television sets, the computer – all the latest gadgets were there and Erik could work every single one of them with consummate ease. Apart from successfully programming the video, a skill which continued defiantly to elude him.

He flipped through a stack of CDs until he found the one he was looking for and slotted it into the machine, settling back with his gin and tonic and watching the news footage of St. John Allerdyce's death.

There was absolutely no doubt at all that the man writhing in agony on the screen in front of him was the man currently sleeping like a baby in the bedroom upstairs, but it made no sense at all.

Erik rewound the footage and watched it again. He repeated this process several times, but no ideas popped into his head.

"I always knew you were smart, Boss," came a heavily accented voice from behind him. "But when did you manage to record people's dreams and sit and watch them?"

Erik stabbed at the remote, but it was obviously too late. John stood in the doorframe, his hair sticking up every which way, his eyes riveted on the now-blank screen, a totally unreadable look on his face. Erik could have kicked himself. He hadn't meant for the man to receive this much information so soon, but what had been done could not be undone.

"Come in and sit down, John."

"I'm fine standing, Boss, thanks all the same." John moved inside the office. Erik watched him like a hawk. He had no way of truly gauging exactly how stable or otherwise Pyro actually was; he'd never been any good at reading the pyromaniac's moods – Wanda had been superb at it. In fact, Erik had long suspected that John had an unrequited crush on Wanda which meant that he tended to do anything she asked of him.

Not that this was likely to happen now, not all the time she was in the asylum, wailing like a banshee over the deaths of her family.

John moved around the room slowly, periodically reaching out a hand to touch one of the many gadgets and withdrawing it again in a hurry. Erik didn't pressure him, merely sat and watched.

Finally, the young Australian took a deep breath.

"Something's wrong," he said, softly. "With you, I mean. You're not the same, are you?"

"I'm older."

"No, it's not that, it's not that. Hang on, let me guess, ooh, quizzes." His face lit up for a brief second, then he shook his head. "I remember…whenever I was near you, all the hairs on the back of my neck would stand up. You told me once it was because of the magnetic field. Remember the time I got sick real bad and you had to get Wanda to take me to the MRI scanner at the hospital? You wouldn't come with me because of the damage you'd have caused? Remember that, Boss?"

"I remember." Erik was surprised that John did. That had been so many years ago. Six, maybe seven – Erik reconsidered. Of course, John was still four years younger than he should be by rights, so it wasn't such a long-ago memory for him. They'd had to sedate him to get him into the MRI, Wanda had said – he'd gone totally nuts over the enclosed environment.

"I got all the hairs on the back of my neck sticking up then, too. Same thing. A…" John's face screwed up with the effort of recall. "An ambient magnetic environment, or something, that sound right?"

"Very good, John."

"I'm not getting that now when I'm in the room with you." John pointed almost accusingly at Erik. "Why is that?"

"John…" The gods be damned. The boy was more perceptive than Erik would ever, EVER have given him credit for. "Sit down, and let me tell you."

"Have you shaved all the hairs on the back of my neck off?" John's hand reached up there and poked around. "Nope, still pretty hairy." He rubbed his nose.

"Sit down, John."

There was something in Erik's tone that invited no argument, and John immediately sat down on one of the swivel chairs and, with absolutely supreme effort, managed not to spin it round. His eyes, large, childlike and trusting, fixed on Erik quizzically.

"You saw the video footage I was playing when you came down, didn't you?" An acknowledging nod. "Do you have any idea why it is that I would have such a thing in my possession, John?"

"You've got a dream recorder."

"John, please. Plug into reality for just a few seconds, son. This is hard enough as it is. Think. Watch."

Erik pressed the play button on the remote again and the news article sputtered back onto the screen. John watched it without comment.

_"…the mutant, who has since been identified as St. John Allerdyce, who worked under the codename 'Pyro' due to his ability to manipulate flame, effectively stopped the assassination of Senator Kelly through his own sacrifice. Seconds later, he was observed to undergo some sort of cellular decay and despite efforts to revive him at the scene, was pronounced dead. Specialists in mutant physiology have stated unofficially that it is highly likely that Allerdyce was suffering from the illness known as the 'Legacy Virus', although these reports are unconfirmed. Allerdyce, 26, originally from Sydney, Australia, was one of the most wanted arsonists ever to have worked in this country. Little is known about who he was working for or with as the very group of mutants he fought against were rumoured to be his one-time colleagues…"_

Erik switched it off, but John made a little noise and reached for the remote. Almost reluctantly, Erik passed it to him. He rewound and hit 'Play' again.

_"…despite efforts to revive him at the scene, was pronounced dead…"_

…Rewind…

…Play…

_"…at the scene, was pronounced dead…"_

…Rewind…

…Play…

_"…was pronounced dead…"_

…Rewind…

…Play…

_"…was pronounced dead…"_

_"…was pronounced dead…"_

_"…was pronounced dead…"_

"Stop it, John." Erik reached out and pushed the off button on the television screen. "I never meant for you to find out this way."

"Find out what, Boss? That I'm dead? I'm not dead, am I? I'm sitting right here, in your very nice office, nice décor, by the way, and I appear to be alive. Unless you're dead too, we're both dead and this whole place is merely a construct in my afterlife. If it is and I'm able to create whatever I want, a thousand candy bars will rain down any second."

He paused and looked skywards, hopefully.

When it was apparent that no candy bars were forthcoming, he sighed and shifted position on the chair so that his legs were tucked underneath him. He fixed Erik with that same childlike stare.

"You're not _you _any more, are you Boss?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…you can't do the stuff you used to. Magneto's turned into Magnet-no, hasn't he?"

Damn the boy. When did he get smart?

"It's true that I appear to have lost the ability to manipulate metal, yes," he said. What was the point in denying it? "However, I am sure it is merely a temporary glitch in normality. I have been…ill."

Lies, sweet lies, which Erik almost immediately regretted because of the look of horror on John's face.

"You've been ill, Boss? Are you OK? What's happened to you? Why do you have a bit of video footage of my apparent death, whilst I am very much alive? What's going on? I don't understand any of this…"

He began, much to Erik's alarm, to hyperventilate.

"John, calm down. Come on, son, I know this is a lot for you to take in, but you have to remain as calm as possible. There's an answer inside that head of yours and we need to work together to find it. Breathe. Come on, breathe."

Erik's gentle tone broke through John's anxiety attack and slowly, taking great gulps of air, his breathing began to return to normal.

There was a long, very awkward silence.

"You've lost your powers."

"Yes."

"I'm supposed to be dead."

"Yes."

"Have I lost my powers?"

"I don't think so, John, you used them only a couple of days ago. I was watching you. But just to reassure yourself – here." Rather nervously, Erik threw across a cigarette lighter, which John instinctively caught. Handing the means to make fire to a man not exactly renowned for his self-control was a little like donning a suit of wet copper armour, ascending to a high point during a thunderstorm and shouting 'I'm an atheist!' very loudly.

"What if I have?"

"Try it."

"I don't want to break anything."

"Try it."

"If you're sure…"

"TRY IT." A hint of the old Magneto in there, and John stiffened slightly.

"Right you are, Boss."

John's hands were shaking so badly, Erik noticed with a sense of guilt, that it took him several attempts to light the blasted thing. When he did, he stared at the flame in thoughtful contemplation for a few seconds, almost as though deciding what to do with it. Then he reached out his other hand and lifted the flame free from the lighter with an almost tender movement.

"Pretty," he said, softly, and tipped his head on one side. "Very pretty."

The tiny flame in his hand burst forth in a riot of colour and heat to temporarily engulf the young Australian. Through the flames, Erik saw a maniacal smile return to his face and then the inferno was nothing more than a flame coming from the lighter.

"I still got it," he said, proudly.

"Yes, John, you do." Erik reached over and rather pointedly took the lighter off him. "You'll forgive me if I don't allow you to burn my house down just yet, though."

A long silence passed between the two men during which John attempted, for reasons probably best known to himself, to lick his own elbow.

Erik raised his eyebrows and just watched the young Australian until he flipped back into the right frame of mind again.

"I know I'm crazy, Boss, and I really am sorry about that, but all of this strikes me as more than a little weird. For the last six months, I've been having these constantly confused dreams, memory recalls, whatever – and now here you are telling me that somewhere in my head is the key."

"I suspect so, John. By rights – and please, don't take this personally, you should have been dead these four years gone. You haven't aged a day since that film was shot. You look exactly the same now as you did then – although a little less sickly."

"What was the 'Legacy Virus'?"

Erik winced.

"The scourge of mutant kind," he said, bitterly. "It attacked the genetic code of mutants and humans alike, although our people suffered far more than any humans. Many good people were lost to its ravages – including you. Xavier's people found a cure and released it into the atmosphere. Fortunately for us, it's now nothing more than a memory."

"Xavier. I remember that name. Stern bloke. Bit devoid in the 'hair' department." John ran a hand through his own thick head of hair. "Had a wheelchair, am I right?"

"That's him. Whereabouts unknown, possibly dead."

"Any of his cronies still around?" John was eager and interested.

"I confess, I haven't actually looked into it in great detail," said Erik, with a smile. "I've been busy trying to work out where all my own people ended up and who still has the ability to do anything for our cause."

"How many have you found?"

A pause.

Erik wouldn't look at him.

"Just me, right?"

"For now, John, yes. You are the only one I've found who still has his powers intact and, given you should be dead, I find that all rather strange."

"Did you know," said John, a deadly serious expression on his face. "Did you know…that you can't sneeze and keep your eyes open at the same time?"

"Did I say 'strange'? I meant 'bizarre'."

"And it's impossible to lick your own elbow, see?" John demonstrated. Erik rolled his eyes.

"This time frame, John, if you don't mind."

"You said 'it's time'. What is it time _for_, exactly?"

"Time to regroup and reform. Time to take control back again. We need to start researching all the known mutants on the database and finding out who still has the ability to do some good. And I'm an old man now, John. I need help. I needed to find someone I knew I could trust, who could start working for me again."

_Unfortunately, you were the only one available. Look at us. Just look at us. An aging old ex-mutant who once nearly controlled the world and who can now barely reach down to put on his own socks…and a nearly totally mad pyromaniac with one foot in reality and the rest of his body floating off in orbit around Planet Pyro. Dear God, if ever I needed your help, it's now._

"Are you offering me a job?"

"If you want to put it like that, John, then yes. Yes I am. Offering you a job."

"Do I get every other Sunday off?"

_Calm. He can't help being the way he is. Stay calm._

"You can have every Sunday off, John, if it makes you happy."

"Pension scheme? Holidays? Sick pay?"

"I'm sure something can be arranged."

"Hmm." John stopped fighting the urge to swivel round in the chair and swung around for a few minutes, clearly considering the options available to him. "A room of my own, every Sunday off…right. How about my own games console?"

"You can have one of each."

"Unlimited access to the Internet?" Round, round, round he swivelled. The squeaking was starting to grate on Erik's nerves, but the older man kept his cool.

"Of course."

"A credit card?"

"Easily arranged."

John's eyes narrowed slightly. This was all too easy. His overactive mind worked hard to figure out the catch. Time to up the ante.

"Chinese food on a Wednesday."

"I love Chinese food."

"The complete works of William Shakespeare in bound hardback leather?"

_Oh for…_

"That's achievable, yes."

"Midnight blue?"

"If that's what you really want."

Right. Time for the killer stroke. John pointed at Erik.

"A rabbit. Can I have a rabbit?"

That one threw Erik completely. He stared at John.

John grinned back_. Advantage, Allerdyce._

"A…yes, yes, of course you can have a rabbit."

"Bonzer." _Result_.

"I'm not going to feed it or clean it out, though. It'd be YOUR responsibility."

_What the hell am I saying? Just in case you're still listening, God, would you mind granting me the ability to remain patient?_

John swung around on the seat for a while longer, then stopped himself and nodded. "I accept," he said.

"That's excellent, John. Really, I'm very pleased to have you back under my employ again. Perhaps we should celebrate our renewed partnership with a drink? G&T, perhaps…or a beer?"

"Don't do alcohol. Got any Mountain Dew?"

That was truth enough: John had rarely touched alcohol in the time Erik had known him, apart from one memorable occasion when he'd discovered Sabretooth's secret stash of Jack Daniels and had tried some out of curiosity.

Then everyone in the base had known about it. It had taken weeks to repair the fire damage and John's hangover had temporarily earned him the nickname 'Captain Vomit'.

Splatter damage.

Ugh.

"I – er – I think maybe Pietro had a bottle of Coca Cola last time he was here…or there's juice."

"Orange or pineapple?"

"Either or."

John considered, then pulled a face. "Hate them both."

_I've made a terrible, terrible mistake_, thought the former Master of Magnetism, grimly. _Help me, someone_.

After several more suggestions were made and rejected, they finally settled on a glass of milk. Erik got up and crossed to the small fridge he kept in his office. There was a carton of milk there and he poured the mutant a glass out, watching him carefully all the time.

Right now, John had become fascinated by the castors on the chair and was pushing himself around the floor in glee. It was uncanny. He'd been awake for less than half an hour and already everything in Erik's life had altered. It was frighteningly reminiscent of the moment he'd realised what having children had really meant.

As was often the way with John, a few seconds later, he made a delayed verbal connection to something Erik had said. "Pietro was here?" he said. "Pietro…Quicksilver Pietro? Your son, Pietro? THAT Pietro?"

Erik winced. How many times could one man put the same name into one breath? "Yes, that Pietro."

"Where's Wanda?"

Of all the questions Erik had prepared for, this had been the one he'd most been dreading.

"Drink your milk, John."

* * *

_(c) S Watkins, 2006_


End file.
